After 4 years of knitting, stitching and stuffing I finally finished
my Beekeeper’s Quilt! I love it so much and am really proud of what I’ve
I’ve knitted so many memories into this blanket. There
are numerous puffs made from the leftover yarn from other projects and
every time I see them I remember that I made a pair of socks or a
beloved jumper out of that yarn. There’s one forest green hexi which is
made from one of the first skeins I ever dyed, which I had to knit
really tightly because I had barely enough yarn. I put so much time into
embroidering little birds and flowers onto puffs and can see how far
I’ve come from the first one (some simple blue flowers which came with
the pattern) to the later ones which I designed myself and put so much
effort and skill into.
At several points I wondered if it would
ever get put together. There was one time I started tying it together
then gave up and undid all my work, putting the puffs back in their
In the last few months I have been making a huge effort
to get this quilt done. Slowly but surely it has been coming together
(and taking up an increasing amount of space in the living room).
Now it’s done and gets to do what I made it for - looking pretty in my bedroom and keeping my feet warm!
The ultimate flight of fancy: Devon Aoki is ethereal in an Yves Saint Laurent organza dress embroidered with bird of paradise feathers. The bird’s legendary plumage is one of Mother Nature’s most glorious, decadent tutus. Photo from French Vogue, March 2000.
Gold silk having very finely embroidered polychrome birds, flowers and fruit with metallic gold baskets and cartouches, short gathered sleeve, the neckline, waist and center front banded with gold passementerie, bodice having self ties at back, drawstring waist, lined in pink linen.
Y/N: I know we’ve only been dating for a couple months but…would you consider meeting my parents on the 15th?
After sending the text message, you waited nervously for Spencer’s answer. It’s not like two months into the relationship wasn’t a good time to meet the parents, but your parents were intent on meeting him soon, and they wanted to meet him on a particularly important day for your home country - Independence Day. On September 15, 1821, Guatemala finally gained their independence from Spain, and every year since, proud countryfolk would celebrate through a special race through the streets, fireworks, delicious food, and dancing. You and your family took part in the festivities every year and you were nervous (but also very excited) to show Spencer how proud you were of where you came from.
S: I’d love to. You met my mom already. But I’m definitely nervous to meet them. What if they hate me?
As you looked out the window, where there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, you couldn’t help but laugh. Why would they hate him? He’s adorable.
Y/N: You treat me with respect. You’re brilliant, kind, funny and caring. There really isn’t anything more they could want in a man for me. We’re going to be taking part in some Independence Day festivities. Is that cool by you?
S: Of course! I could ramble about Guatemala’s Independence Day, but I’m sure you know it all. I’ll be there.
You did, but you wouldn’t mind hearing him ramble about it. Listening to him talk could’ve been considered a pastime for you.
Y/N: Thanks, Spence. It means a lot to me.
Now, you had to find a way to narrow down all the things you wanted to show him. There was such a rich culture to explore, and you wanted to show him all of it.
Just a few days later, you met up with your parents at their home before going to pick up Spencer. “Okay, now I realize that I am your one and only, but be nice to him. Also, he tends to ramble a lot, but he knows everything about everything, so he’s very familiar with the history of this day. Can you be nice to him?”
You spoke to them both, but stared at your father. He had a bad habit of coming on a bit too strong and rude when it came to your previous significant others. “Be nice to him!”
“He has to be good enough for my baby, and then I’ll be nice to him.” Ugh. Dads.
For the last time, you checked the time on your phone and turned to warn your parents one last time. “Be nice! I’m going to pick him up now. We’ll meet you there!”
“See you soon, sweetie!” Your mother called. “This was going to be interesting.”
After knocking on the door, you patiently waited for your boyfriend, taken aback by his lack of speech when he opened the door. “You look beautiful,” he smiled.
That’s right. He wasn’t accustomed to seeing you in Guatemalan clothing, and today you were wearing your traje, a traditional dress that you’d made yourself (well, with your mother’s help) over the course of many years. While going to college, working a crap job to help put yourself through school, and eventually obtaining your full-time job, you worked on your traje - one you would wear on special occasions for as long as you lived. It consisted or a blouse, or huipil, a skirt, or corte, and faja, or belt, all of which came together in a whirlwind of color to dazzle neighbors, loved ones and strangers alike while simultaneously telling the stories of the past.
The one you’d made with your mother was probably one of the most intricate you’d ever seen, but you loved the design your grandmother used to wear and had done everything you possibly could to make the design as close to hers as possible. A replica dress (she’d been buried in hers) and the locket she’d left you, kept her with you whenever you wore them. “This is beautiful,” Spencer said as he stepped toward you. “D-Did you make this?”
“Not by myself,” you laughed. “My mom helped me, and it took years between work and school and everything else.” Your traje depicted the legends of the conquest of the town of Nebáj (where your ancestors hailed from) by Pedro Alvarado, the conquerer of Guatemala. The repeating bird designs embroidered in a plethora of different colors, represented to vanquished chieftain, Tecún Umán, whose soul the quetzel bird took to paradise. All around the birds were horses and soldiers used to represent the conquering Spaniards. There was no color you could think of that wasn’t included, and everything was intricately woven together on a white base blouse that made everything pop. The skirt was embroidered at the bottom much the same as your blouse, and you truly never felt more beautiful then when you were wearing it. “I’m glad you like it though. It’s very close to the one my grandmother made for herself years ago. It reminds me of her.”
For a moment, you got sad. Your grandmother was your everything and you missed her very much. Spencer stepped forward, sensing your sadness and wrapping his arms around before placing a delicate kiss on your forehead. “I’m sorry I never got to meet her.”
“Me too,” you sighed. “She would’ve loved you.”
Grandma was always on the hunt for knowledge. She never wanted her mind to get frail, and it didn’t; she stayed sharp until the day she died. But she absolutely would’ve loved hearing Spencer ramble about anything and everything. “Ready to go?” You asked.
“I’ll follow your lead.”
About a half hour later, you met up with your parents at a local festival just outside of DC where people were celebrating with a contemporary Mayan performance showcasing the xajoj q’ojom (the Kaqchikel “music/dance”) of Grupo Sotz’il, a world-renowned Kaqchikel Maya ensemble from Guatemala. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Y/L/N. It’s very nice to finally meet you both.”
“So this is the boy my little girl keeps talking about,” you mother said, grabbing Spencer by both of his cheeks. You’d forgotten to mention the fact that Spencer wasn’t great with touch, but he was handling it all in stride. “You treat my baby well and we’ll be fine. It’s nice to meet you too.”
Spencer gave your mother a smile before turning his attention to your father, who, beyond your expectations, just extended his hand to Spencer, who took it and gave a firm handshake. “What my wife said. Treat her well and we’ll be fine. Otherwise I’ll have to kill you and make it look like an accident.”
“What!? I have to instill the fear of god in him a little bit.”
Spencer smiled as he tried to keep himself from laughing. You were utterly embarrassed. “I completely understand,” Spencer said. “I would never, ever think of hurting her. I can promise you that.”
Finally, the embarrassment washed away. Just in time for the performance, which they’d dubbed the Heart of the Earth after the original show. Spencer watched in awe as masks and colorful costumes told a beautiful tale. It wasn’t a big show - no flashy equipment or tailor-made costumes to tell the tale. It was all stripped down so to speak, and it was all the more beautiful for it. Even the instruments were handmade. For the entire 60-minute runtime of the show, Spencer was transfixed, occasionally giving your hand a gentle squeeze to let you know he was paying attention.
Once the performance was over, everyone gave them a standing ovation, and the ensemble invited the audience down to ask any questions they had about the instruments, the performance or Mayan culture in general. “Mom, Dad and I are going to grab some food. You wanna try something?”
“Do you mind grabbing me whatever you’d like me to try so I can go talk to the performers?” He asked. Spencer was genuinely the best boyfriend in the world; he wasn’t just doing this to impress your parents, he was truly interested in your culture and it warmed you from the inside out like Chicken Pepian. Mmmm. Speaking of, your stomach was growling as if to remind you it hadn’t been fed saved for the apple and small yogurt you’d had this morning.
As you turned to go grab food with your parents, you saw them eye your boyfriend one more time. “Is he just doing that to impress us?” Your father asked. “Because if he is, it’s working.”
“He’s not just doing it to impress you, Dad,” you assured him. “Spencer genuinely thirsts for knowledge. Kind of like grandma.”
“She would’ve liked him,” he replied. That’s when you knew your dad really liked him. If he thought his own mother would’ve liked Spencer, then that was good enough for him. Your father had never liked one of your significant others that quickly. Spencer was golden if your dad liked him.
On your way to grab food, your parents started asking about Spencer, wanting more details about how you met (online, both of you had taken a chance on online dating), where your first date was (local park, Spencer made a picnic) and if you wanted to marry him (you did, but you were only two months into the relationship, so you weren’t going to say anything just yet). Then they started asking about his job, which they knew about, but they didn’t know to the extent he was in danger on a daily basis, and you weren’t about to scare them and make them think that anything could happen to you (it could, but it was a risk you were willing to take). Thankfully, delicious smells distracted you all so you didn’t have to lie to them. Your parents took some food to snack on as they went on their way to meet up with a couple of friends. “Don’t leave without saying goodbye,” your mom said, “and have fun with your cute boy.”
“Thank you mom. I’ll take to you later.”
Your stomach growled intently as you picked up some of basically everything on the table for you to eat and Spencer to try. “Hey babe.” Spencer was still talking to performer’s ear off, but he wrapped it up as soon as he heard you.
“Where’d your parents go?”
“To meet up with friends. They like you. My dad said his mom, grandma,” you said, grabbing the locket around your neck, “would like you, so you’re golden. Grandma’s choice means you’re in.” Leaning up, you placed a kiss on his lips, careful not to get too hot and heavy for fear your parents would be right around the corner.
Spencer heaved a sigh of relief. He’d been really worried. “Oh thank god,” he said, resting his head against yours. “Now…food. What is all this?”
One by one, you introduced him to some of your favorite dishes and foods. Spiced mangoes, seasoned with chili and lime. “This one is Chicken Pepian, isn’t it?” He asked. “That’s pumpkin and sesame in the sauce?”
He knew your favorite dish. You were definitely in love. “It’s the national dish of Guatemala. After tasting everything, I might have to go back and get more of that.” You let him try Kak’ik, a Mayan turkey soup spiced up with coriander, achiote and chile peppers. Guacamole, which was unlike any other he’d ever tried. And some Tres Leches Cake, which was smooth, rich and delicious. “I’m going to need more cake and more of the Chicken Pepian,” he said, smiling.
After you were both filled to the brim with chicken and cake, dancers of all skill levels began to flourish in the streets. Down about 75 feet away, your parents were gliding back and forth hand in hand. If you could have that kind of love at their age, you would consider yourself blessed. “I can’t dance for shit,” Spencer said, extending his hand toward you, “But I can try…for you.”
“I’ll teach you,” you laughed. “Plus, this kind of dancing you really don’t need to have any skill for.”
“So I’m good.”
Nodding, you grabbed both his hands in both of yours and began swaying back and forth to the beat, occasionally bursting outward so that he could spin you. You stepped on his feet a couple times, and he did the same to you, but you were having fun. “Wanna go out for All Saints Day too?” You asked. “We celebrate that too - with kites and more delicious food. We tend to take our lost relatives’ favorite foods to their graves and eat at the cemetery. You can meet my grandma.”
“I’d love that,” he replied, tilting your head up with his index finger and pressing his lips to yours. “Will you wear this again?”
“To see grandma? Absolutely.” You would’ve dressed in your traje every day if you weren’t so worried about ruining it and having to make a whole new one. “It keeps me close to her, as does the locket.”
The two of you fell into a comfortable silence while you continued to dance clumsily to the music. Spencer looked down to where your parents were, giving them a small wave as he twirled you. “Do you think that could be us?” He asked sweetly.
You knew there was a reason you were head over heels for him. “Definitely.”
Sorry one took so long! I just started a second job and it’s been an adjustment. I’ll try and get the next one out soon! Thanks for all the love everyone<3
“Elain, you don’t have to come,” Feyre was looking at her like she was about to break.
Elain smiled at her sister, “I want to be there and see this through. I’ve been involved from the beginning and I won’t shrink away from my part in this.”
Of course, she didn’t have to go to the peace negotiations between Fae and Humans. Feyre, Rhys, and Nesta were the only three from the Night Court that were truly needed. Yet, Elain couldn’t shake the feeling that it was crucial she went. And it wasn’t as if she was the only other extra from the Night Court. It was a given that Mor, Cassian, and Azriel would go as well. Even if Amren wasn’t currently vacationing in the Summer Court she doubted she would’ve been accompanying the party.
so i says to myself, i says, “what if instead of working on any of my wips i just made myself sad for no reason”
“I’m sorry that we can’t explain,” Clark said, “but you’re just going to have to trust us.”
Martha Wayne had not lowered her pearl-handled Derringer. Lamplight glinted off the filigree. Outside the door, the party continued on as if nothing was amiss. Her finger was not on the trigger, discipline immaculate, leaning backward against the desk with her other hand braced against it. “That might present a problem, Mr. Party Crasher.” She seemed to take a particular relish in the word crasher, said it like the sound of an apple cracking in half. “I really must insist on knowing how you got past my security,” and she threw a pout into her insistence that gave her voice a hint of petulance. “My security is very good, isn’t it, Mr. Pennyworth?”
“Always flawless, Mrs. Wayne,” he said from where he guarded the door, spine stock-straight. He was nothing but sharp edges, a Doberman watching the room.
“That, we also cannot explain,” Diana said.
Martha arched one perfect eyebrow as she took in the sight of Diana’s arms, left bare as they were by the Grecian cut. They were a study in opposites; Martha was pale, slender, looked like she’d been poured into her dress or had it poured over her. Tall, but Diana was taller. And while Diana might look like she could snap a man’s neck with her hands, she also looked like she’d feel bad about it.
Martha looked like she was calculating the cost of cleaning the rug.
“I also don’t trust people with accents I don’t recognize,” she warned.
“Don’t trust us, then,” Bruce said, startling Clark. He’d been keeping his distance, and the other two had fallen into guarding him, a wall between Martha and Bruce. Bruce stepped between Clark and Diana, and immediately Martha had trained her pistol on him. Scanning him, looking for whatever it was they’d been trying to protect. “Trust your instincts.”
“My instincts say you’re dangerous,” she pointed out, though obviously intrigued.
“So are you,” Bruce said. His eyes never left hers.
“Flatterer,” she accused.
Bruce held out his hands, palms up, an offering. “I would never hurt you,” and his voice almost broke over never, rasped like sandpaper in his throat. “Look and see, if you don’t believe me.”
She watched his hands warily for a moment. His spine was straight as steel, his posture perfect. “Alfred,” she said finally, lowering her pistol. “If they try anything, you have my permission to kill the pretty one.” She winked at Clark, red lipstick an impish curl.
“With pleasure, Mrs. Wayne,” Alfred said between his teeth. He was already taking off his tie to wrap it around his hands. Clark’s sheepish blush was an apology no one was willing to accept.
Martha set her pistol down on the desk and came closer to take Bruce’s hands in hers. For a second — half a second, maybe — he shut his eyes, grit his teeth. After that, he never wavered.
She frowned as she looked at his palms. She flipped his hands over a moment to look at his knuckles, then back again. She ran her thumbnail along a deep scar carved through the lines of his hand, curled his fingers to see his nails. Then she looked at his face, and her frown turned to something else.
“Goodness.” She reached up to take his face in her hands, and he swallowed hard but didn’t recoil. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look so sad.” His hands balled to fists at his sides, white-knuckled. “Not while looking at me, anyway,” she added flippantly as she let him go to give him breathing room. “I am a delight.”
She looked like she was about to say something else, but then she froze. She held up a hand to gesture for silence, didn’t even breathe so that she could listen, her gaze lost to the middle distance. Clark and Diana cocked their heads to the side to listen; Bruce already knew what it must have been. A heartbeat in the walls where it didn’t belong, unsteady breathing kept carefully quiet, rustling as it crept closer.
Clark put a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, but Bruce only shook his head.
“Alfred, heel,” Martha ordered, grabbing her pistol to put it away in a desk drawer. Alfred did not seem put out by the indignity of the order, moving quickly to put his tie back on where it belonged.
“Quickly, now,” Martha said, gesturing to Bruce. “Tell me what we’re doing, and tell me quietly.”
He clasped his hands behind his back, leaned closer for a low whisper.
“There’s another party crasher here,” Bruce explained, “and he’s here to kill your son.”
Martha’s eyes widened, her jaw stiff. She nearly reached back for the pistol again. Then she collected herself, lifted her chin to accept the challenge that had been presented to her.
Bruce stood straight again, and turned to leave her side, to stand behind the others again. Not quite hiding. Diana reached out to touch his arm, but stopped before he could pull away from her. Bruce didn’t like to be touched, not when he was this raw and aching Bruce, one of a hundred different Bruce Waynes that shared his heart and skin and scars.
Diana refused to call this the real Bruce. There were others just as real she’d seen, real smiles and real warmth. Just not here, not now.
“Brucie,” Martha called, surprising both Clark and Diana. Bruce pretended to look over a bookshelf, and shut his eyes. “What have I told you about eavesdropping on Mommy, dear?”
After a moment’s delay, a panel in the wall above a shelf opened up. A pale face peered out of it, large dark eyes and a mop of black hair. Eyes far darker than those Clark knew. “Not until I’m fourteen?” the boy asked.
“And yet here you are,” Martha scolded. “You may as well come down, you’re far too young yet for me to be craning my neck to talk to you.”
Brucie twisted and contorted himself to get out of a space that shouldn’t have fit him, even as small and as delicate as he was. A porcelain doll of a boy, and when he dropped he landed silent on the balls of his feet. His pajamas were black silk, embroidered with birds in red thread. Martha gave him a golf clap over his landing, and so he doubled over in a showy bow with both arms outstretched.
“Have you been watching the party, dear?” Martha asked. Brucie said nothing, clasping his hands behind his back in much the manner of his older self. Brucie had much less practice at pretending he’d been doing nothing wrong, so his eyes wandered everywhere in the office but his mother, rocking on his heels. “Have you figured out who the murderer is?”
Clark and Diana both looked to Bruce. Bruce bowed his head, hiding behind his own shoulders.
“Yes!” Brucie said immediately, perking up. His rocking had turned to a bouncing of his heels, only his toes remaining on the floor at all times. Bruce remained still as a statue, still as he always was, grounded as a tree. “I knew the second I saw him, this time. I mean, at first I thought it was Ryers, because at first I always think it’s Ryers, but he’s just a red herring.”
“Do you know why you’re so sure?” Martha asked, which stopped Brucie short. Bruce shook his head, knuckles resting against his mouth.
“It’s just — he’s just — I know who it is, though,” Brucie said, clearly believing this ought to count for something.
Martha put her hands on her hips, raised an imperious eyebrow, and Brucie slumped under the force of maternal censure. “What do we say about Who?” she asked.
Bruce tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling, fingers draped over his mouth only barely hiding it as he mouthed the words. “Who’s no good without a Why and a How,” Brucie said sullenly. Bruce shut his eyes again, shut them hard, and took a long slow breath that didn’t help.
Anon, you gave me this gift in my inbox in April. I have read it over and over again, but I never posted it, and I have no excuse. I’m sorry. You continue to overwhelm me with your generosity, and I can’t tell you how many times this has picked me up over the last few months. You are amazing and I don’t deserve you, and I am so, so sorry it took me so long to post. These things are beacons in some of the most difficult parts of my year, so seriously, thank you.
“Before I forget,” he replied pointedly, “I have something for you.” Her
eyes rounded out in curiosity as he hefted the wad of brown paper and
string into her hand. “I’m not much for wrapping I’m afraid.” She held
out her glass and he obliged her taking it, trying not to watch so
closely for her reaction. Paper dropped to the ground with the pieces of
confetti and ribbon already littering the place. What was left was a
jutting, three-pointed pieces of crystal the color of an ocean.
“Damn it.” Over and over Fenris muttered the same words as he walked,
police-grade coat drawn against the wet cold of creation. For half the
neighborhood this would simply be the time to gather around the fire and
drink something warm. But for Hawke (and the other half of the
neighborhood surely invited), it was a day to celebrate.
The detective inspector palmed the paper wrapping in his pocket, trying
to reassure himself. Hawke had never been averse to celebrating her
birth, and certainly never objected to an occasion to have any sort of
party, but he’d never seen her make a big deal out of it. Only in the
recent years, as memories of family and city turmoil began to fade, had
she shown any real interest. So naturally, he had to do everything in
his power to help make this an occasion worth remembering.
The New Balance strip celebrates the club’s 125th anniversary year by continuing the retro-style theme for next season with a quartered green and white shirt that takes inspiration from the team’s first jersey in 1892.
The kit features an embroidered commemorative Liver bird crest and a subtle pin stripe within the design – and is completed by a black collar, black shorts and white socks with a green horizontal stripe and black trim.
“This kit looks classic – up to date, but with a nod to the past,” said Liverpool vice-captain James Milner.
“It will be a reminder of the foundations this great club is built on every time we wear it. The whole team is really proud to be a part of this huge anniversary for the club, and we can’t wait to wear this kit next season.”